


Assorted Fire Emblem Drabbles

by ArgetCross



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Dealing with death fic, Family Fluff, Gen, Post Canon Fics, Post-Canon Funerals, Pre-Canon Meetings, Regna Ferox Badasses, Those of Grima AU AU, Volleyball AU, Your Parents in the Past are not Married AU, dem Setter feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-14 08:09:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2184267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgetCross/pseuds/ArgetCross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Usually small one-shots I post on tumblr. Some Volleyball AU, birthday fics, assorted expanded theories, genfic galore. **SPOILERS FOR THE ENTIRE GAME**</p><p>Just trying to compile them here so they don't get lost on tumblr. ^^ </p><p>Haura, the tactician associated with "and she loved him above all" series and Those of Grima crops up occasionally, but usually not the main focus. </p><p>Chapter 9: "Dancing had always allowed Olivia to touch all sorts of people, even in the midst of a war." [Olivia-centric + Plegia and Ylissean relations]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Happy Birthday, Inigo! [Inigo, Olivia, Lucina, Alternate Parents AU]

Inigo buys the tickets the moment he sees the posters around Ylisstol. The Plegia-Ylisse war had ended years before he had expected and by the time he made it across the sea, the capitol was in full swing celebrating Chrom’s ascension to the throne and his new marriage.

 

The theatre is small, dim, and packed. He finds a standing table and flashes a few grins to the waitresses. They look unimpressed as they hand out drinks, but tonight, Inigo cannot care less. He only has one woman on his mind tonight and she is far more important.

As she comes out on to the stage, he forgets to breathe. Olivia is younger than he had ever seen her before and while he knew this would be the case, it does not stop him from staring as if she would vanish into nothingness at a blink of his eye. Surrounded by the gauzy white of her dancer uniform, she is ethereal, exquisite, ephemeral.

She bows deeply and Inigo is close enough to the stage to see how pink her cheeks are, hidden behind her hair. The crowd bursts into cheers around him and his voice joins them. Then a hush descends as she straightens her back. Something snaps into clarity in her face, an expression of concentration so familiar Inigo shivers. Olivia places her foot forward, outstretches her arm, and arcs back.

Olivia stands there, suspended in the silence and the heat of the stage lights. The pause is too long, Inigo notes in the back of his head. He can see the faintest crease of worry on Olivia’s face, but no one else notices.

The fiddle whines into life all of a sudden and she slides into routine as if nothing had gone wrong. The cheers begin as her arms spin in mesmerizing patterns over her head, her golden ornaments jangling. Her feet hit the floor in time with the drum beat and Inigo can feel his body yearning to fold himself in the rhythm of the music and to move. When she spins and kicks herself airborne, her entire body a lithe, sinuous arc floating in a moment, the entire theatre goes wild. Inigo stretches out on the tips of his toes.

Olivia skips, swings, and stomps hard, so the old planks on the floor creak. The music crescendos with her leaps and she weaves in and out of the notes, harmonizing sound with her movements. Her dance brings his warrior heart new blood, makes his dancer mouth dry with passion, and Inigo wants nothing more than to dance by her side again.

When she finishes with a leap and a split, the crowd went into an uproar, cheering and clapping. They hit their tankards against the tables so hard that even the jaded waitresses look impressed. She bows again and flowers rain down on the stage.

"Tips for the lovely Olivia. Wasn’t she wonderful? Come on, show your appreciation with some coin!"

Inigo looks over and sees the collectors with their hats starting to fan throughout the crowd. He even recognizes a few of them, Shepards, from his hazy memory of his childhood. Reaching into his pocket, he tries to find some coin, only to remember the lady thief that robbed him blind two days ago.

Someone places a coin in front of Inigo on the table. “You can give this to her.”

"Thanks. Wait-!" Inigo looks up and sees Lucina without her mask standing across the table from him. Luckily the theatre is still loud and no one notices Inigo’s outburst.

"I thought you would come here." In the dim lights of the theatre, she looks as grim as she did a year ago when he had last seen her.

"Lu- Marth! Where is your mask?" he hisses, making sure to lower his voice.

"It broke. Besides, the room is dark. If you’re so worried, you should have worn one too." Inigo tugs his bangs over his branded eye with old embarrassment. Still, the stage lights threw the rest of the theatre into comparative shadow and Lucina’s eyes appeared almost coal black.

Inigo casts a glance to the stage, but Olivia does not seem like she will return for the encore. “Let’s go somewhere else to talk.” he says and tosses the coin she gave him into the nearest hat.

"Thank you, young man- wait, Marth?"

Lucina grabs Inigo’s wrist and they bolt, pushing their way through the crowd and knocking over a lot of tankards and tables. The woman in the bulky coat calls after them, but she does not try to pursue them.

"Lucina, slow down, they’re not following us-" he says as they run two blocks east and three north, close to the outer wall of town. 

She finally does stop in an abandoned alleyway. While she catches her breath, Inigo grabs her and wraps her into a hug.

"I’m glad you’re alright." he mutters into her hair, the same shade as his and Father’s, and she hugs him back. Her arms are filled with the familiar relief they had felt each time they had reunited after a mission.

"Older sisters have to take care of younger brothers." she says and Inigo recognizes it as one of Mother’s sayings.

"And younger brothers have to take care of older sisters." Inigo finishes. They part and Inigo smiles broadly.

He had worried he would never see any of his friends ever again. The world was so vast and he had been so lost for the first couple months, filled with a mission to see his parents and stop Grima, but with nothing to direct him towards that goal. And after struggling without coin and being rejected from village maiden to village maiden, he had made it and found his beloved sister in the flesh.

Then his heart plummets when he remembers what had drawn him to the theatre that night, what must have drawn Lucina to see their mother now of all times.

As Inigo stares at the Brand of the Exalt in her eye and she stares at his, they can see the same question running through their minds. Lucina is frowning as usual and Inigo’s grin has begun to suffer wears and tears.

"It seems we’ve really succeeded in changing the future already. We did so well that our father and mother never got married and we’ll never exist. Erasing someone’s existence should be enough to stop Grima, right?" Inigo says.

He does not know where the joke comes from. It is in terrible taste and normally this would be when the girl walked off or slapped him, but Lucina instead cracks a small smile. 

"The war was over so much faster. They didn’t have time to get to know each other…" Lucina explains, but to herself or Inigo, neither of them is sure.

Inigo laughs and even to his own ears, it sounds vaguely maniacal.

"…alright, now that we’re both here, the only thing to do is seduce Father’s current wife and you can attack when Father and Mother are together. That way they’ll realize their chemistry, get married, have us, and everything will be fixed."

Lucina almost has a heart attack until she realizes Inigo is smiling that tired, old smile. She shakes her head sadly.

"There’s nothing to be done. We have to be grateful we didn’t start vanishing once the timeline changed this much. And I’m sure there can be someone else Mother can find happiness with.”

They are lying to each other and hiding behind smiles to soothe their feelings. It is an old, bad habit, but Inigo is nothing if not well practiced by now. He puts his arm around her shoulder and they stand in each other’s company. 

“She was lovely tonight. Do you remember when we used to dance around the old ballrooms on her feet? Father was so bad that Mother had to lead.” Lucina reminisces because they are the only ones who will have these memories and stories now. If she does not speak them now, her chest will burst.

Inigo nods as he remembers how brightly Mother shone then and now whenever she performed. Not matter how embarrassed she was before or after, Olivia unleashed on a stage brought cheer to their grim childhood days and sparked in Inigo the fierce desire to follow her. Even if it meant dancing in front of her grave while Lucina brought fresh flowers and pretended not to watch.

“Lucina, will may I have this dance?” Inigo says out of the blue. The memory of her performance keeps inflaming his imagination. All he wants to do is dance until his body empties itself of anything except for rhythm and movement and light. He turns to face her, bows as is custom, and offers her his hand.

Lucina understands and takes his outstretched hand. They settle into the old position Olivia had taught them long ago. But she is stiff until Inigo pulls and pushes at the frame of her arms to loosen her up.

"I don’t remember all the steps." Lucina confesses.

"Just remember the feeling and follow me." Inigo says.

And then they are off, dancing a quickstep down a narrow alley.

Inigo counts out loud because he has not had a partner in a long time and Lucina takes a few hesitant steps before the flow of the dance solidifies between them. Their feet find their pattern and begin to lift off the earth. They whirl and skip, Lucina’s hair flying, and Inigo’s feet kicking in time with his breathless “and a one, two-”

Lucina lets out an unrestrained laugh, the first in months, as Inigo dips her forward and slings her back. His heart lightens each time their feet flutter above the cobblestones, as if they were fairies among flowers. Inigo smiles wide for an unseen crowd. They reach the end of the alleyway in moments and he pulls up in a flurry of little kicks to round the corner. Lucina does not know this part and almost trips but he slows down just enough to steady her back into the beat. Her steps fall back in line with his and Lucina’s lips curl into the smile Inigo always tried to tease out.

They take off again, swinging through the moonlit streets of Ylisstol. Everything is silent aside from the sound of Inigo’s counting, the shuffling of their feet, and Lucina’s laugh, the same timbre as their mother’s. Inigo skips a certain way that reminds Lucina of Olivia’s light feet and Lucina’s hand grips Inigo’s the same way she first held Falchion, with Chrom’s hands enclosing hers. They cross and bound through empty streets, holding on to each other, dancing as if the night will never end.

In those dark streets, Inigo becomes nothing but exhilarated  _movement_ , needing nothing but his and Lucina’s feet flitting upon the air, a memory of a fiddle, and their parents’ laughter in that faraway ballroom so many years ago.


	2. Imagine Your Icon Spooning You [Those of Grima AU AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, spooning with your daughter isn’t too weird in some cultural traditions (it’s just a form of cute cuddling after all) so have a ficlet. Haura and her daughter Marc in an AU where they get to be happy together. @U@ (It's an AU of an AU- /shot)

Haura gently brushed the comb through Marc’s hair. It was softer than her own and had the natural bounce and volume that kept her father’s hair sticking up haphazardly. “You have very pretty hair- have you thought of growing it out?” Haura murmured.

"It’ll get in the way." Marc mumbled into the pillow she held to her chest. They were sitting on Haura and Lon’qu’s bed and as she buried her nose into the pillow, she could smell the natural musky scent of her parents upon their sheets. Papa’s scent was comforting and familiar, but Haura’s, new and of a completely different timbre, kept throwing Marc off.

"Well, you can tie it back. But I guess you don’t really want to look like your old mom." Haura said with a chuckle. Marc shook her head, not sure if she agreed or disagreed. "Now, do you want the braids pulled back? Or I could give you a head massage. Whatever you’d like."

Instead of responding, Marc flopped onto her side with a small whine.

"Do you want to sleep here tonight? I can kick Lon’qu out and make him go sleep with Morgan. We can tell each other secrets in the dark." Haura said with a teasing lilt. As her mother lay down next to her and gathered Marc into her arms, Marc admitted it was nice. Haura was small but sturdy and warm. Even though her scent, her rhythm of breathing, her presence was all unfamiliar and new, having her arms around her and being close enough for Marc to hear the rattle of her breath was comforting.

"…is it weird?" Marc whispered because sometimes when Haura smiled, she still saw Grima’s fangs and sometimes when Haura’s voice was in her ear, Marc recoiled with such fear that everyone would take notice. Haura never spoke of these moments and just smiled her sad little smile that reminded Marc acutely she was not Grima.

Haura hummed into Marc’s hair. “Nope. I’m your mother. Of course I want to baby my kid. It might be awkward for your father though.”

Marc giggled. Papa had been flummoxed by Marc at first and tried valiantly to overcome his fear for a daughter that clearly loved him to death. “He gave me a hug the other day.” Marc said with an air of triumph.

"What devilry is this! I didn’t get a hug from him until we were engaged. And it took him a year to understand my thing about not being just a woman and not being just a man. That’s a family secret by the way- your father will kill me if he hears I told you this."

Marc could feel the rumble of Haura’s gentle laughter on her back and she closed her eyes, safe and sound in her mother’s arms.


	3. 1 AM Regna Ferox Drabble or Inspired by Khan Flavia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very rough, unedited, and vaguely ramble-y. You have been warned.
> 
> Basilio takes Lon’qu to meet the current Khan Regnant, Flavia. Or Flavia inspiring everyone she meets just by being her.

"So you’re the brat everyone’s been going on about. You want this babe to train with your personal warriors, Basilio? You’re going soft."

The first time Lon’qu meets Khan Flavia of Regna Ferox, he barely comes up to her shoulder and he is still slumdog thin. The only muscle he has is taut and wiry, stretched over his bones like the ligaments of a gnawed chicken wing. He shivers constantly in the unfamiliar chill, even as he grits his teeth, bites his tongue, because everyone in Regna Ferox is strong and he came here because he was,  _had been_ , is still weak. It was an honor, for Khan Basilio to bring him to the Arena, where the strength of a few determined the protection of thousands, all to show Lon’qu what Basilio had saw in him and believed he could be.

 

Khan Flavia greets Basilio personally in good humor, only because as of last night, Basilio no longer held the throne. She smells of the celebrations and Lon’qu shies away from that acrid scent of alcohol, human sweat, and greased steel- it is a dirty smell that reminds him of bandits and men with swords he could not kill. However, Flavia’s eyes are bright at five am in the morning, so whatever indulgence she consumed hardly hampered her sword work and meticulous eye for detail (in the middle of their conversation, she turns to shout down to the arena a correction to the form, something so minute, Lon’qu would have assumed she had made it up, had he not seen the staggering change himself).

He fears her, not like how he fears the women that look, move, and smell  _like Ke’ri_  (they are everywhere, when he is awake and in his dreams), but because she leers at him and threatens to break him upon her sword. Rather than desiring to flee, he can feel the hackles of his fighting spirit, full of trepidation but no less heated, rise. But Flavia who has judged him in an instant and lost interest in the next, shrugs off his intention.

Lon’qu hates being looked down upon, even when he knows he is utterly outmatched. It is this hot-headedness that leads him to speak out of place and declare he would seat Basilio on the throne in five years.

The Khan Regnant laughs, loud and ringing. It matches Basilio’s belly deep chuckles even though she is half his size. The joke is just that funny to her because she throws her head back and even Basilio looks sheepish on Lon’qu’s behalf (because he likes the boy and wants him to succeed but Lon’qu is not a warrior, not yet). Soon even the sparring warriors below pause and look up. Lon’qu’s cheeks are burning now but he holds her stare because backing down now would make him  _less_ \- he is not sure why or how he knows but, in the absence of someone to cling onto, to protect, and to give his meaningless life worth (without her), this choice will shape his resolve.

"Boy, I would ask if your wits were still about you if I did not already know this is your youthful arrogance talking. Any man or woman can promise to move the heavens and earth, but here we stand, feet still on the ground. You will find here, in Regna Ferox, words will not win you a khan’s throne." Flavia says. Lon’qu remembers her words, the way she swaggers away with mock condolences for the lost throne, and how, like Basilio, she fights among her warriors. In a blur of red and gold, she is like the tigers of his homeland, tearing through her opponents like wet paper. And it was all acceleration, the way her arms snap in and out of a strike, so fast that Lon’qu holds his breath. It is as if the air itself cannot keep up with her movements and she slips in and through it, the deadly hunter in the golden fields. He wants to move like that and when he returns with Basilio to the West, he secretly adds Flavia into his mental list of targets, checkpoints, idols.

The next time they meet, two years has passed and Lon’qu has already made incredible leaps in progress. Flavia still does not trade much more than one or two sentences with him, but Lon’qu is not a general or minister, so he is not slighted. She still has that grin that tugs up her lips each time she pauses, but Lon’qu can see her eyes mean business now. Her words are all about the state of the realm and their army. Basilio has been overreaching again, she argues, and while Lon’qu will always side with the West-Khan, Flavia’s chastisement does wrangle out different terms for their treaty with Plegia.

No matter her amusement (and Basilio was the same way) they watch everything with a nervous edge, almost a paranoia they could not turn off, that Lon’qu recognized similar to his own anxiety. Basilio plays it off with a magnetic charisma and Flavia seems to compensate with disarming wit and sheer intimidation yet the weight of the crown darkens their brows. 

But that is not Lon’qu’s world. The one time he walks in on a snarling Flavia straddling a grim-looking Basilio in the throne room, he promptly walks back out and personally wards all the servants away for the next two hours. It is not a hard job anymore. Lon’qu had shot up, gangly and awkward, to be taller than Basilio and as his shoulders fill out, he finds it easier to push people away. He is not sure if he likes this- enough years have passed where he begins to feel pangs of loneliness.

By the time Ylisse, a southern kingdom that is both infinitely blessed by divine favor and infinitely cursed by the men that received such benediction, sends her young Exalt to meet with the Khans, the next tournament has come. Lon’qu is, having not rested a single day these last five years, finally ready.

Lon’qu looks up to Flavia twice. Once, before the horn has blown, and the rest of the combatants are still taking the field. She leans over the rail, one leg across her knee, fingers digging into her calf. Basilio had told Lon’qu many times before that they would have preferred to face off themselves but the logic and tradition means the khans will roar and scream down to the arena, lending only the power of their voices. Sharp as ever, she notices his gaze and her lips curl slightly. The message was clear. Flavia would not be impressed until she saw the results. He ducks his head, steadies his beating heart, and unsheathes his blade.

When the last of her champions falls to the dust and the Arena erupts,  _an upset, this immigrant nobody, Basilio has the throne_ _,_  he looks up again. She was no longer smiling, face tight, for she must have known by the third or perhaps second move how it would play out. But she sees him singling her out and she nods. He is breathing hard, adrenaline pumping through his body, and as he walks out of the arena, Basilio comes down to clap him on the back which means more than all the chatter and praises around him combined. Lon’qu only speaks when he spots Flavia waiting for both of them.

"I said I would. And I did, in five years." he says and now he looks down at her with this new height and new strength. But as the words leave his mouth, he realizes how much higher Basilio and Flavia still are. Five years is nothing compared to a khan’s lifetime-

"You hesitate too much to use the hilt and focus nearly entirely on the blade. There is too much push behind your swings-" Flavia begins.

"Lay off, woman. Tonight is a night of celebration, for me and him, at least! The youngest champion in Feroxi history. We can dissect your moves after several kegs of mead." Basilio says, and despite his loud chuckle, the hint of defensiveness came across loud and clear. Flavia scowls, but drops her line of questions, even through Lon’qu wants to ask what she meant.

"Hmph. And you will have forgotten everything about the fight by your fifth tankard. Did you forget I can drink you under the table?”

“Is that a challenge?” And they weave through their familiar steps, Lon’qu fading into the background. He wonders if he is dismissed, when Flavia suddenly calls him out.

“Don’t get complacent, Lon’qu. I’ll find men and women better than you before the next tournament. Or I’ll fight you myself.” She uses a threatening voice despite being tempered by good will. Flavia is deadly in everything she does, even acknowledgement and he swallows hard.

“…Hmph. I know I am still inexperienced and have much to learn.”

Then Flavia grins and attacks him, grabbing his head in a vicegrip and -ruffling is too soft a term for the way she rakes her hand through his hair. Lon’qu’s cheeks burn as he tries and fails miserably to escape the Khan’s idea of physical affection. Basilio’s laughter only makes it worse.

“What a brat you are.”

 


	4. who wakes up one morning to find the other passed away in their sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m a pretty bad person. A reunion at a funeral.

It was almost too well arranged, that Chrom died before her. “Always leaving us behind and charging ahead, huh?” she had murmured to his coffin before the new Shepards, proud, strong, and full of loyal melancholy, bore Chrom away on their shoulders.

 

As Haura rode with the old Shepards, forming the vanguard behind Chrom’s coffin, the streets of Ylisstol filled up behind her, the thousands of lamentations rising up to the sky like the wails of the dead. The day had been too hot and she could see all of her old friends’ discomfort. Her hair, even tied up, kept sticking to the back of her neck and she could smell Lon’qu’s familiar sweat behind her.

Even five decades later, Haura could taste the tang of Plegian sands and she could have sworn the sky was the same shade of blue that wreathed around Emmeryn as she fell. She felt her mind wandering as they tried to hide their sweating and the march continued on. Lucina rode at the front, older than her future counterpart now, and while she had cried with everyone last night, her face was now clear and pale, back straight and tiara glinting in the sun. Frederick, in full armor even though he had turned entirely grey, rode by her side, constant as ever. Wanting to see how Lissa fared, Haura turned her head slightly.

Haura recognized the figure that had slipped behind Lissa’s horse instantly, even if she had not seen her in over two decades. Her hair was tied up the same way she had taught Haura so many years ago and a new mask, nearly identical to her old one except with proper eye holes, adorned her face. Chrom and Haura used to joke about the way dragon blood kept them young, but, Haura’s eyes flickering between the princess at the front and the foreseer in the back, it was almost too eerie. Morgan and Severa walked by her, and slowly, Haura could see them fade into the rearguard, all on foot, like mirages from the distant past.     

With a sad smile, she turned back to face the front. Lon’qu had noticed as well and touched her elbow. “We will have to invite them to tea afterwards. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen Morgan.” He murmured into her ear and Haura caught herself from laughing inappropriately amidst the sobs of the lamenters.

Letting go of the reins with one hand, she threaded her fingers through his by her side, as sweaty and gross as his palms were. Her right shoulder, so stiff nowadays, ached and Haura thought of Chrom’s stupid decision to always wear one sleeved tunics, even in winter. She had not cried yet, but her eyes felt cold as she realized she would never greet him in Ferox with a wry smile and a fur-lined cloak. Lon’qu squeezed her hand before pulling away, her hands too warm for him.

“Tea sounds good.”


	5. The Tactician's Return [Post Canon]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years later, she reappears in the world. A short drabble about that last scene plus a little extra.

Haura wakes up to Chrom, Lissa, and Frederick, surrounded by the grass curling around her body and the sun too bright overhead. Her hand reaches out without her conscious input and the leather of Chrom’s glove against her skin assaults her senses, too quickly, too much, the roughness, the warmth, the pressure.

Her world spins in vertigo as she is pulled to her feet. Now she feels her lips, her tongue, and her throat. Awareness flows down her body- her nostrils flare, her back pops into place, her stomach clenches, small shudders to alerts herself that she is alive again. But before she can settle into herself, Lissa barrels into Haura and Chrom’s hand is nothing compared to how she drowns and goes limp against the intensity of Lissa’s touch.

"Chrom-" she pleas and Lissa begins to crumple under her dead weight with a squeak.

"I got you. I got you." Chrom is caught between crying and laughing as he shoulders one arm, Lissa the other. Haura dangles between them and even as her body feel heavy, foreign, alive, she croaks out a laugh.

"I said we would meet in a better life, so why do I feel as weak as a newborn babe?"

It takes several attempts for Haura to figure out her legs again (-amnesia is one thing, having a body dissolve into ether and then be resurrected is another-) but Chrom holds her hand the entire time like he is her father, her brother, her comrade again. Lissa cheers her on and when Haura manages to dance half a jig before tripping and falling on her face, Frederick pulls her up on his back, declares they’ve wasted enough time, and hides his relief by marching at the front.

The first day is a blur of too many people, too many sensations for this sensitive body to deal with. She learns too much in too little time and there’s still more, more that she has missed, adventures, weddings and babies, career changes. Morgan who has stolen her job as Ylissean tactician, has grown to his father’s height and it is Haura being wrapped up in his hug as they sob into each other for a good hour. Papa is not here, Morgan tells her. Lon’qu works by Basilio’s side these days and the trip to the west of Regna Ferox is a week on the fastest pegasus. Haura is disappointed, but there is little to be done about it and already she has so many faces to greet again, to cry with, that by the end, her nerves are thoroughly shot. She retreats to a quiet, dark room to deal with the overload once she finds a window to slip away.

Chrom finds her late in the evening and tosses his crown onto the couch. The lines in his brow have deepened but the cheer on his face has not faded. “Five years without you was longer than anyone expected.” Chrom says. “You look exactly as you did on that day.”

Haura says nothing at first, struggling with her drowsy mind to put it into words. She had existed the entire time (a memory of non-being cannot return, after all), but those five years were numbing loneliness, reflection, and boredom, in a hazy, dream-like sleep. Time had stopped for her, both in mind and body, and as she readjusted to her body, she found herself in the exact wartime fitness she had been when they fought Grima. The only difference was how the Heart of Grima had now been purged from her. That eddy of malicious power sleeping in her veins had run dry forever and that one weakness she embraced wholeheartedly.

Chrom on the other hand, had continued on without her for five years and Haura can see the slight grey in his hair, the darker bags under his eyes, the beginning of wrinkles, but also a glow that came from peacetime.

"Are you sure your glow isn’t just because I’ve gotten plumper?" Chrom chuckles as Haura insists. "Don’t flatter an old man like that." And now Haura is scowling and hitting his shoulder and Chrom falls back into the old pattern with ease, even if he is rusty from five years of no practice.

She feels as if she has never left for a moment, until Lucina, who is not a babe or a masked woman, but a rambunctious child runs in to demand her father’s attention. Owain and Lissa run in next, filling the room with chatter, and Haura smiles. Chrom is fluent with his child in a way that highlights the years of adaptation and progress, into a father and into an exalt. While she wishes she could have seen it for herself, being here, with the damask of the couch under her fingers, the musty smell of the velvet curtains, the laughter of a family in her ears, is already enough.

Tomorrow she will begin her life again, five years later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a fic I really want to write, but I promised myself I would not start until I at least attempt to finish all my other half finished things. That one is about realistic marriages and what does it mean to be in absent for five years and love being something you work for and we want happy lives, not endings.
> 
> This is not that fic. This is more of a prequel/premise summary that says nothing at all. Hopefully it piqued your interest a little! Let me know what you think.


	6. A Replacement!? [Volleyball AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cordelia is the star setter of Ylisse East’s co-ed volleyball team. Sumia played her second fiddle, but that never bothered her. But last night’s game against Grima High had changed things…for the worse. 
> 
> A drabble for the Volleyball AU where Ylisse East and Grima High are rivals and everyone experiences intense sports anime feels and volleyball spring youth. Unedited, written in a hurry, and mostly fluff/volleyball teammate feels. Imagine overly dramatic anime yelling and emotions over sports and you basically have the style of this piece.

The first sign that something had gone wrong was that Cordelia was here, bent over the drinking fountain next to Sumia.

 

They had just finished the most depressing warm up drills and stretches Sumia had ever had the displeasure of being a part of. After last night’s disastrous game, Ylisse East’s team morale had plummeted. It would figure that Sumia’s court debut would end up as a loss. Even Captain Chrom seemed a little off, forgetting little things like specifying how many laps they were supposed to run or counting out loud while stretching. Coach Phila had called an early water break and to everyone’s disconcertion, pulled Chrom aside.

Sumia had no interest in watching their captain get chewed out and so even though she had brought a full water bottle, she slipped outside of the gym to the water fountains. And that was when she saw Cordelia.

Cordelia never forgot to fill her water bottle. In fact, Sumia was pretty sure Cordelia never drank regular water as the one time they had a thirty second water break and Sumia had forgotten her bottle (again), Cordelia had let Sumia birdie from hers. Cordelia’s water tasted kind of funny, sweet and dry, and Cordelia had said with that casual expression, “Oh, it’s just sport water. Pocari Sweat. My aunt brings over the powder from Japan,” like it was no big deal that Sumia just drank imported genuine Japanese athlete water.

Cordelia was indescribably cool like that.

As their team’s star setter, she could not only set anywhere on the court but also jump up and spike high passes as well as Stahl or even Frederick. Sumia always winced when she, as the secondary setter, ended up inevitably being compared to Cordelia. If Cordelia and Chrom had not been so kind to her, Sumia was sure her shaky confidence would have been trampled into the dust. Still, regardless of what people said, Sumia looked up to Cordelia and whenever she worked to improve, it was Cordelia’s back that she saw. That was why after last night, even though she finally got to play on the court (and managed to not fumble at all!), the fact that her chance had been at Cordelia’s expense made Sumia uneasy.

So, Sumia screwed up her courage and asked,

“Cordelia, are you-”

“Oh, Sumia! Do we have to get back already?” Cordelia said with a start and her hand jerked up, sloshing water all down her arm, onto her shirt, and onto the floor. “Oh darn-”

“Are you okay? Oh my gosh-” Sumia was already turning to run to the bathroom and grab paper towels when Cordelia grabbed her shoulder.

“It’s just water, Sumia. We’re going to be covered in sweat soon. It’ll dry out fast enough.” Cordelia said and Sumia nodded. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice you were right there. I must have looked so foolish, jumping at the sight of you!” She laughed but it sounded a little forced to Sumia’s ears.

“It’s alright. Listen, Cordelia, are you okay? You seem a little, er, jumpy for lack of a better word.” Sumia said and when Cordelia avoided her eyes, her stomach plummeted. So there was something wrong.

“I played an awful game last night. Of course I’m a little unhappy. There were so many things I still need to improve-” Cordelia began but Sumia frowned and shook her head.

“That’s not it. The Cordelia I know would be working herself twice as hard and making us all worry. But you were even slower than usual during our run and you keep getting distracted- um, not that you’re slow or anything-” Sumia quickly backtracked, waving her hands in front of her and turning pink.

“Sumia! It’s okay. I understand what you’re trying to say.” Cordelia said before setting her water bottle down on top of the fountain and sighing. “I suppose everyone will know sooner or later. Actually I got pulled aside after last night.”

Sumia felt her stomach drop. “What did Coach say?”

"Coach Phila wants me to play weak side as a hitter and backup setter. She wants to make you the primary setter." Cordelia did not mean to add a little tenseness to her secondary sentence but it hit Sumia hard nonetheless. A thousand questions ran through her head, mostly paired with the incredibly daunting feeling of 'I can't possibly replace Cordelia-'.

“I’m so sorry-“

"Don’t apologize! To be honest, I’m not happy but… I agree with Coach’s decision. You saw how I played last game- setting to Ch-Captain even though he was getting blocked left and right! I cost us the first set because I couldn’t judge the court rationally like a setter is supposed to." Cordelia said, looking incredibly bitter, and inside the gym, the whistle blew.

"Cordelia-" Sumia began.

"Come on, we don’t want to be running suicides if we’re late. I know you hate running."

"You hate it too!" Sumia protested as they jogged back into the gym. On the outside, it looked as if Cordelia already bounced back to her normal diligent self, but Sumia could tell it was a front.

Coach Phila announced the position changes as if they did not upend Sumia’s world around her. On the outside, nothing much changed for the rest of practice as Sumia and Cordelia had always alternated to set for the drills. But the mere status of being the primary, the one that would now play the entire game and direct the team through her sets, threw Sumia for a loop.

She tripped on her shoelaces three times that day, once right after a set. Thank the gods that Sully aced it otherwise it would have been amazingly embarrassing. When Sumia looked up from the ground, face smarting from the floor, her teammates pulled her up with laughs and congratulations. But no matter how well she played today, Sumia could not help but still feel she was trodding on toes. Especially when Cordelia kept forgetting she was not playing setter during the scrimmage.

As the back up setter, Cordelia was supposed to wait until Sumia needed to call for help to set the ball and focus mostly on hitting and blocking the weak side. But more than twice, Cordelia crashed into Sumia trying to get a ball clearly not for her. The second time Sumia’s elbow hit Cordelia’s nose and to Sumia’s horror, blood started streaming down her lips and chin.

“Cordelia, go get that cleaned up. This is why you have to back off when Sumia’s setting.” Coach said sternly as she handed Cordelia a wad of gauze. Sumia had ran to and from the bathroom with more tissues, only to slip on the floor and slide in front of Cordelia’s feet. “And Sumia, stop letting Cordelia run the court. You’re the setter, you get to make the calls. Push her out of the way to get to the ball if you have to.”

“Yes, Coach.” Sumia said in a small voice as she got to her feet. Face red with humiliation, she handed Cordelia the tissues.

“Coach, it mah fault. I was bahl hoggin’-” Cordelia tried to say through the wad of tissues pressed against her bloody nose.

“Go wash up Cordelia. And the rest of you! Stop gawking around and go back to the drill.” Coach Phila clapped her hands and the team muttered amongst themselves, slinking back to their positions on court. Sumia looked between Cordelia’s retreating back and that empty setter position on court.

“Come on, Sumia, we have to perfect that outside shoot! We got it earlier, let’s make it happen again. I wanna hit another one like that, except with less you falling on your face.” Sully called.

“R-right!”

 

Cordelia came back to the gym to find the team picking up the volleyballs and folding up the table. With a sigh, she headed over to collect her stuff when Sumia came running up to her, volleyball in hand.

“Don’t you have to put that away?” Cordelia said and it came out more bruque than she intended.

“Let’s practice. Coach said she gave you the keys to the closet and if we put away the net at the end, we can use the gym until the school closes at nine.” Sumia said and threw the volleyball to Cordelia.

“Sumia, what’s gotten into you? We can’t stay until nine-”

“I want to practice my back sets. And I want you to teach me. And you need to practice your hitting. It’s a win-win. Come on.”

Sumia being assertive was odd enough that Cordelia followed her to the net in a daze.

“Frederick, can you toss for me for a bit?”

Frederick eyed them for a moment and Sumia nervously tried to stare him down, despite being a head shorter. She did not miss the way his eyes strayed to Cordelia, who looked oddly nervous. “…just until my ride comes.”

Frederick had his own car and drove to school, often taking Chrom and Lissa who otherwise had a thirty minute walk at six am. Cordelia’s eyes went wide. This was too much.

“Thank you!” Sumia said and before Cordelia knew it, she was watching Sumia at the net, knees bent in ready position.

Frederick passed the ball to Sumia, who jumped up to back set to Cordelia. As her fingers made contact and sprung the ball into the air behind her, Sumia did not have to turn to feel the set was off. The harsh smack of Cordelia’s hand against the ball and the sound of it catching in the net and falling to the ground range throughout the gym.

“Sorry, that was too straight out and fast. Frederick, again.” Sumia said.

“Actually, the speed was fine.I was too slow.” Cordelia said as she remembered how her approach staggered and slowed in the last step. The contact had been explosive but the ball had been low. Now she was starting understand why Sully, Chrom, and Frederick always noisily demanded one more set after a failed hit. The frustration itched at her and Cordelia narrowed her focus to just Sumia, the ball, and her own body.

Again, Frederick passed to Sumia, but this one went a little off the net. Sumia moved before even Cordelia noticed, repositioning herself and jumping to intersect the ball rather than waiting for it to fall. It flew off her hands, a promise to Cordelia, and Cordelia had taken flight before she even realized her legs moved.

So this is what being up so high feels like-

The ball slammed down into the opposite court right on the line so hard that Sumia still was finishing her landing. She whipped around to Cordelia- “That was amazing!”

“…I’ve never hit like that before. Sumia, that set should have rolled right off your fingers.”

“I know! But I pushed a little harder because I knew you wanted it high and it worked. Oh my gosh, Cordelia, you’re going to be our new secret weapon.” Sumia gushed.

“Sumia, I think this is why you were made our new setter.” Cordelia said and Sumia’s good mood was replaced with concern.

“N-no, that hit was all you. Clearly Coach saw a missed opportunity for you to-”

“Listen. That hit could not have happened if it wasn’t for you. You…understand how to set for people and adjust to play to people’s strengths. Unlike me who stubbornly fixated on Chr- setting only one hitter, you keep trying your best with everyone. You like setting people up, don’t you?” Cordelia said and the smile that crossed her face was the first genuine one in days.

“Yes, I do! But I like setting for everyone because they’re so cool and confident and it makes me feel good to make that happen. Like you, Cordelia. I want to send you the best set so everyone knows how amazing you are-!” Sumia shut up with a squeak and Cordelia laughed.

“…do you still plan to practice any more?” Frederick said behind them and Sumia gave Cordelia a questioning look.

“What do you say, conductor of the court? I’ll hit anything you send me.” Cordelia said, stretched her arms out and feeling that strange urge to rush and take flight. Sumia’s eyes went big and her earnest smile was only offset by the fact she nearly tripped over her own feet while running back to the net.

“R-right! Once more!”


	7. death and their lover [OTP Prompt, Lon'qu, Death AU]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lon’qu has walked with Death by his side since his youth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From otpprompts on tumblr: Imagine an AU where Person B of your OTP is Death. In this world, Death releases souls from their mortal bodies with a kiss. Somehow Person A and Death meet (Death taking a holiday, Person A can somehow see Death when they come for a loved one, etc.), but they spend their time together knowing that their first kiss will also be their last.

He first meets them the day that Ke’ri dies in front of him, arms outstretched, as if she could be the impassable wall to shield him from their approach. He is close to death himself, collapsed in the field with his vision sliding in and out of focus.

 

In Chon’sin legend, Death is a judge with a scowling red face and with a large black book filled with a record of all human deeds that children were taught to fear. But the one who came for Ke’ri, who bore her up in arms as black as the night sky, who pressed their glistening gold lips to that child’s bloody mouth, is nothing like the idols in the temples.

He tries to scream at them, swinging his only weapon, his desperation and rage, as Ke’ri stills in their arms. Yet he cannot even choke out a single word as his body spasms with pain from ugly men with greased blades. Death, after laying down that faded diminished body, looks at him with deep deep night eyes and approaches.

They are beautiful, stunning, beyond words. The grass around their feet wilts when they press down and springs back to life as they leave. Lon’qu can already feel his own breath turn cold with each step of their approach. His eyes are glassy and his body refuses to move as they lean in, close enough for him to feel the exhale of Death’s breath.

"It is not your time, brave little warrior, but you will surely suffer more. I can free you now if you would like."

Their voice rasps and slides, quieter than Lon’qu would have expected. They are soft soft a beckoning of oblivion. Their lips gleam with moonlight and sunlight all at once and the last breaths of lives across the world tints their mouth. Lon’qu can see the allure in being crushed to stardust between their teeth. Yet his heart strains, his breath labors on, in a furious effort to keep him alive. They are terrifying in their depths, unfathomable and full of finality, and he can’t-

"She died…for me." he manages to wheeze and it feels as if his lungs have caught aflame in his chest.

And now Death’s expression changes for the first time and he realizes their face, what he had thought was ethereal and cold, had only been full of weariness and tinged in regret. When they smile, it is as if he had looked to the vastness of the night sky and in one awe inducing, breath stealing moment, the moon had winked at him.

"I hope we do not meet again for a long, long time, Lon’qu." Death says and pulls their lips away. They leave Lon’qu aching in loss, mostly for Ke’ri, but partially for the crushing loneliness and he is delirious with pain when he says-

"…stay."

Death allows themself a sad smile. Many have asked them to comfort them in their last moments but Death is not comforting. Death is exactly as they are- an end with no time for reflection or emotion.

Yet even as the last vestiges of consciousness leave Lon’qu’s eyes, he holds them there, unable to tear his gaze from Death’s face. Before they realize it, Death sits down by this boy, half dead but certain to survive this and many fights to come. They gather his bruised and bleeding body in their white robes, pure and forever unstained. Lon’qu has gone limp in their plump arms, alive, heart fluttering, and Death presses one hand to their own chest, where nothing but void rattles in their rib cage.

No other scavengers dare come near so long as Death remains in the area. They brush one charcoal finger against their lips and, because Death knows all the wishes and regrets of those that pass, they flick dust onto Lon’qu’s sleeping face and rain down on this boy Ke’ri’s last thoughts.

_Live._

When Lon’qu awakens, body just strong enough to stagger back to the slums with Ke’ri on his back (he could never leave her behind even as the stench of Death overwhelms him and all who dare approach), his eyes drip with the golden sand of Death’s mouth.

They meet again many many times in the future. No one else notices them or perhaps they do but they do not see Death as Lon’qu does. Fellow warriors only see how clean Lon’qu’s kills always are. Death trails behind his sword on the battlefield, pressing their lips and palms to the ones he has killed. When he asks if there is a difference, he hears Death laugh for the first time and it is as if a star faded out with the expansion of her diaphragm. It should have chilled Lon’qu to his bones. Instead he wishes he had heard it earlier.

"Call it a vanity, but I do not like to kiss those filled with malice in their last moments."

He joins the Shepherds and he begins to see Death more frequently as the war erupts between Ylisse and Plegia. The tactician of his new army reminds him of them although her eyes do not have that same eternal darkness and her mere presence brings a cold sweat to his neck. He is not sure when he began to fear women more than Death themself and the irony is not lost on him.

They look more harrowed each time Lon’qu sees them, flitting from mouth to mouth, and blood begins to stain their arms shiny red. The Risen, they mention in passing as they stumble forward on the Plegian sands, make them uneasy. Perversions of nature, of arcane laws that Death will never explain and are beyond Lon’qu’s comprehension, drain them each time those corpses awaken. There are people who should not be alive, they confess to him, people who should have left the world long ago and the way they cling onto the world by the tips of their fingers stretches them apart little by little.

By the end of the battle, as Death collects the dying wounded, he waits for them.

The tactician comes instead, worried for his health and weary from another hard-won battle. She distracts him with dark jokes that he cannot hold a laugh back from and quiet musings. If he does not look at her directly, he can choke down his instinctive fear. There are some like him that walk with Death on their shoulder and he wonders if she realizes how much Death clings to her, from her words to her breaths to her lips, not golden, but brown and plain. By the time she leaves, forcing a promise of more time together in the future out of him, Death is nowhere to be found.

The fury of the last days of war occupies Lon’qu’s entire attention and he does not notice until later he had not seen Death even from afar. An exalt falls and he is reminded how the only judgment even a saint like her receives is a kiss.

Then peacetime comes and another war and before he knows it, he is in love with a tactician who kisses him with lips that looked like gold in the firelight and they do not steal his soul, only his breath. He begins to fear meeting Death again, to see them draw up his wife’s lips or any of his comrades and he tries to choke down the wretched feelings. And still they do not come to his side even as he kills and kills and kills.

The world is falling to pieces again as a new war, not for a nation, but for the preservation of humanity, swallows them all. His tactician rampages across the battlefield, intent on severing her ties with her hated destiny by killing all that draws her back into that fate. Lon’qu is caught up in her exquisite path of destruction, torn between his worry and his admiration.

Then Death returns and Lon’qu runs to them before he realizes they stand behind his wife as she rips apart the ones that would have her be their apocalypse.

In the wake of the battle, he comes to them. Death is bitter as they see him coming, covered in the refuse of battle, of their scent.

“Why do you follow her now?” Longing fills his voice before he can stop it.  

Their golden lips twist into a wry smile even as their eyes . “Brave little warrior, do not have a love affair with Death. It will only bring you to my lips and then you will come to nothing.”

“Then will you take her from me as you did Ke’ri? Will they all go to you while I can do nothing but wait-?” Lon’qu hisses and he is not sure what he wants, Death is no future, the present flees too quickly, but he cannot stop his racing heart that wished to live and longed for Death all the same.

“…You two are so similar, loving what you should not, pulling away from me to live and yet never letting me go.” Death murmurs and Lon’qu realizes they speak about their tactician, who once dealt in death and now has found herself saturated, enamored, rushing towards those night black arms.

“Yet you are the one that always come back.”

Death freezes and then laughs. Around them, the torches flicker, the bones on the altar sigh, and the stars rattle in the sky. They come near and the white of their teeth crescent against the blood red of their mouth. Their eyes curve at the edges and Lon’qu sees the same grim weariness in their eyes as he has seen in his wife. Black hands snaking out of white robes touch his hands and their skin is clammy and soothing. And Death leans down and he reaches for those dusty aurelian lips.

“Death’s love is a curse. Many would call you unlucky.” They mutter. And Lon’qu can see now how much Death looked like his tactician or rather his tactician looked like Death and of course he knew all along, those that wanted to mold that spit and fire into their own cruel, violent Death. It is why they walk by her side now as each step brings them into one.

He breathes across their lips and Death sucks in that bit of life he dedicates to them, turning his strength to mist scattered across the universe. He cups their face and puts their foreheads together, a pinpoint of light and heat guttering in the vastness of space. Death closes their eyes and Lon’qu smooths away the millennia of wrinkles and closed curtains.

“I will live.” That had always been his vow, since they had first met, and even as his heart aches, his voice does not waver. Death pulls away and nods approvingly even as he sees their sadness.

“When I come for you, it shall be for an old lover then.”

 

On top of the dragon, Death comes for their love as promised. Lon’qu watches, filled with pain, sadness, helplessness, and the tiniest bit of envy, as the tactician that refused to become Death herself grabs Death by the collar and kisses her deeply.

They sigh into her lips and Death’s hands tangle up in her hair, tugging at the strands that glowed fire bright in the falling sun. Ichor from Death’s mouth smears across her face as color drains from her cheeks and her body fades away bit by bit. She pulls Death even closer, her dissolving hands leaving ashy handprints on the white cloth, clinging, needy.

Lon’qu cannot help himself and screams out, because he loves her and them and Death is always leaving, just as she finally burns herself into nothingness. Death stands there, arms empty, with tears down their face and golden dust falling from their lips.

As they turn to leave, Lon’qu catches their hand and he can feel his wife’s fingers in the grip of Death, curling against his.

“They said we could bring her back. Is this true?”

Death wraps him in their cold bright arms, this boy of misfortune that always stood in their shadow and found love instead, and carefully allows him to feel the hollowness in their chest. Finally his tears come, sliding off his nose and running comets down their shoulder.

“I will treasure that memory of her long after all of you have become rocks and earth and air. You and her who love me like no other.” Death murmurs. “I will kiss you like that when your time comes.”

Lon’qu breathes, ragged, but alive, into their neck, to Death’s old old sad smile.


	8. Passage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgan is at a loss of what to do after Khan Basilio’s death. It seems that your parents don’t always have an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in reaction to deal with some real life mourning. Unedited, rough, and a little raw. Title comes from Vienna Teng's Passage.

Morgan could not sleep. Earlier he woke up to the muffled sounds of Inigo crying. Given how he had been brushed away earlier with a cheery false smile when he tried to comfort him, Morgan could only lie still and wait until Inigo had fallen back asleep. Then Morgan sat up, pulled his coat, and left the tent they shared.

The West Khan was dead. None of them had been there for it and the Shepherds themselves had not fought the battle that led to Basilio’s death, but it had occupied the front of all of their minds regardless. Inigo’s mother had been close to the West Khan, and even though Noire in a quavery voice had told Morgan that Khan Basilio had died long before any of the children had met him (as ordained by the foreseer, that the future favored this road above all), seeing Olivia’s grief was all it took for Inigo to mourn a man he barely knew.

Morgan had not known Basilio well either, aside from the couple times Papa had brought him to the exuberant West Khan to “check if the rumors Lon’qu had actually gotten with the army tactician of all people were true”. In the few minutes of the Khan’s presence, Morgan had seen why Papa respected him so despite their intensely opposing personalities. Khan Basilio was as formidable as he was vigorous and he had his own brand of roughness that only accentuated his impressive style.

In other words, he was intensely cool.

Morgan had told him so and received a hearty pound on the back along with a challenge for him to be the next Feroxi champion. And then Morgan never saw him again, as only a week later, as they fled south from Walhart’s armies and into the arms of Yen’fay’s, Basilio and Flavia went up north to ease up the chokehold.

When Flavia came back, armor scuffed up and a gleaming gemstone clutched in her hand, Morgan had seen Mother’s face turn hard even as she kept her posture stiff and chin high. Papa, on the other hand, turned on his heel and left in the middle of the meeting, ignoring the pairs of eyes that watched his retreating back. When Morgan stood up to follow after him, Mother had rested her hand on his shoulder and shook her head.

The resulting fallout was odd. No one talked about it. Or if they did, it was in hushed tones that trailed into nothingness. Lucina was working twice as hard nowadays and more than once, Morgan had heard the whispering of doubts, what if Walhart really was more than they could handle, and would he be the one to bring back the fell dragon Grima that led to the death of all their parents? Nothing Morgan could do would change the melancholy and grim expressions of his friends. Each hug he gave was met with gratitude but a kind of pity, as if they believed he did not understand his arms could not shield them from the future crashing down upon them.

Morgan’s feet took him past the night watch and he greeted them with a cheery smile. “Can’t sleep too?” Cherche asked as Minerva rumbled behind her, those wyvern cat eyes bright in the shadows. Morgan eyed Minerva with interest- Mother had sent him to study battle strategies for flying units and run test maneuvers in various environmental conditions earlier, but a wyvern illustration in a book and a ten, fifteen foot scaly flying lizard with teeth and claws were two very different experiences. Minerva, as if put off by Morgan’s intense focus, snorted in Morgan’s face and blew his hair into his eyes. Cherche laughed softly.

Shaking his hair back into place, he asked, “Too? Are there others up?”

"Yes, Lady Say’ri and Lady Tiki just went to that spring over there for a drink. Minerva says she can’t smell any of those foul Risen or enemy soldiers around, so it should be safe to take a stroll, if you remain within the line of the trees there." Cherche said.

"I see. And the moonlight means that as long as I stay there, you’ll be able to see if I run into trouble, ingenious! Maybe I’ll take a stroll too. That’s what people do when they want to clear their heads, right?" Morgan said as he squinted to where Cherche was pointing. Gerome’s mother laughed softly.

"Minerva and I can cross that distance in an instant, but I would suggest you bring a weapon regardless. I would not want to face your father if I let you go unarmed past the camp perimeter."  

Morgan fumbled in his pockets and found a few spare Dying Blaze tome pages from the time he had tried to teach Brady how to improve his proficiency in magic. It had been an interesting afternoon, considering they had greatly underestimated how much the one time use tomes amplified their power. Who knew that Laurent’s conical hats  and Severa’s pigtails were so flammable?

Minerva growled and apparently that was good enough for Cherche. Once Morgan left Cherche’s company however, he found himself wishing he had stayed and chatted instead. The thin part of the woods mean the sky seemed enormous over his head and he would have lost all sense of where he was if it were not for him turning back to see the torches by the campsite. It was a lonely feeling to be wandering around with his bare feet on the cold damp earth. Morgan almost doubled back to find Mother and Papa, but quickly dropped that idea that after yesterday’s events.

The first sign something had been wrong was how dark the tent was. Mother’s desk candle was nearly always lit, no matter how late Morgan went to find her, and Papa who hated when she worked herself until her nose was a centimeter from the page, scattered so many candles around it was a fire hazard. This time, Morgan could hardly see Papa’s bowed back in the shadow as he sat on the edge of the bed. And then the sound of crying hit Morgan’s ears and he felt his heart sink into his stomach. Papa had let out a quiet sob, muffled in his own throat, and his broad back that Morgan had looked to many times for reassurance had shrunk.

Morgan had froze in the tent flap, half wanting to throw his arms around his father and half wanting to flee. Then Papa had turned around and Morgan would never forget those red rimmed, watery eyes, the quivering attempt for his mouth to flatten, and that lost expression. Lon’qu had never looked so young and small.

"…Morgan?"

It had been terrifying. But he could not stay standing in the doorway forever, not while Papa clearly needed someone and Morgan could not leave him alone to find Mother. Morgan had straightened his back, tried to give his best reassuring smile, and went to give his father an awkward hug. “I’m here, Papa. I’m here.” he had said as his father’s strong arms had been almost painfully weak as they held onto him.   

No, he did not want to think too deeply about how useless he had felt as Papa cried into his thin shoulders or how his own eyes had watered up from nothing aside from the sight of his father’s face. Nor did he want to think about what Mother had told him later, to support his father the best he could with a mournful expression. When Morgan had asked her what was wrong, she looked as if she was on the verge of spilling something - and Morgan had no idea what he would do if Mother began to cry- but she instead gave him a guarded look and her reassurances seemed a little rushed in comparison to her normal attentive patience.

Morgan walked a little faster and soon found him by the spring that Cherche had mentioned. He could see Say’ri and Tiki sitting down on the bank, staring out to the water in what felt like a private moment, and he turned to leave when,

"Hail! Is that you, son of Haura?" Say’ri beckoned him over and Tiki smiled serenely down at him from her perch on a stump.

"Hello, Lady Say’ri, Lady Tiki." He said when he approached and bowed to both of them.

"Are you unable to sleep as well?" Tiki asked and Morgan nodded. The Voice of Naga sighed and looked up to the moon. "Everyone has been so restless as of late. Especially you children from the future of despair. I only wish there will be a moment of respite for all of us soon."

"We must fight though. There will be time to rest… and mourn after Walhart’s empire is toppled." Say’ri said in a weary but determined voice. "And then reconstruction can begin…"

"When will you finally have time to take a nap with me if you plan to book away the next twenty years of your life?" Tiki teased. Say’ri smiled at her and they fell silent for a while, watching the spring burble and glimmer in the moonlight.

"Can I ask both of you a question?" Morgan broke the silence and they looked at him.

"Speak your mind. You may find you will sleep better for it." Say’ri encouraged and Morgan was struck by how her advice sounded like his father’s. It must be a swordmaster thing. Or a Chon’sin thing. Or maybe-

Morgan cleared his throat. “Why don’t adults like to cry?”

Perhaps he had said it too insistently because Tiki cocked her head in surprise and Say’ri looked as if he just knocked her sword out of her hand. Then, because Morgan was absolutely, completely serious, they began to think about it.

Tiki began first, in her soft, dreamy voice that made Morgan believe her without even needing to hear the words, “I suppose… because when we cry, we have to acknowledge how much something has hurt us. Sometimes we have to pretend something doesn’t hurt us so we can keep moving on. When you cry, it only begets more sadness. Sometimes it’s easier to pretend it doesn’t affect you anymore, that you’ve gotten used to the sadness.”

 “But you don’t? You don’t get used to it?” Morgan asked, slightly scared to hear the answer. Tiki paused, so Say’ri spoke up.

“No, alas you do not. I still think of Yen’fay and my heart still aches. He is- was the only family I had left in the world. It is a wound that injures me again and again each time I remember.” Say’ri said, looking out to the water and her voice laced heavy with melancholy, “But I cannot waste too much of my time crying when we are still in a war. How can I be strong enough to survive and not waste the life my brother sacrificed himself for if I spend all my time bemoaning my own circumstance? I won’t allow myself to weep.”

Both answers left Morgan with a sense of disatisfaction and it must of showed on his face because Tiki gave him a sad smile. “The true answer is that we each must deal with our own sorrows with whatever works best for each us. And the most I can do for Say’ri is stay by her side and let her know I love her.”

“F-fie, do not tease me like so! It is not befitting-”

Morgan laughed when Tiki blew a raspberry at Say’ri who looked more unbalanced than he had ever seen her. Then, Tiki glided down from her perch and gave Morgan a soft hug that smelled of mint and lavender. Morgan snuggled back against her. Tiki’s arms were bare despite the chilly air and unlike Minerva’s hard scales, she was warm, leathery skin.

“Better? It can be hard to be a child but play the role of an adult. Haura tells me she regrets putting you through this but I know you would regardless of what she said. The other children look to you for hope, you know.” Tiki murmured and Morgan knew now how potent the Voice of the Divine Dragon was as he felt himself relax at her calming words.

When Tiki let him go, Say’ri surprised Morgan by drawing him into a quick hug, despite being far more stiff than Tiki. “It will turn out fine.” she said and Morgan had a feeling she said it not just for him, but for herself as well.

“Definitely.” Morgan said with some of his old cheer back in his voice. Then, because he wanted to move on from the subject and erase the sadness on Say’ri’s face. “So, did I ever tell you about the idea I had about manakete knights…?”


	9. On the Ships to Valm [Olivia-centric]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dancing had always allowed Olivia to touch all sorts of people, even in the midst of a war.
> 
> A little drabble that was going to serve as the introduction to another story but works better as a standalone character exploration/world exploration thing.

Olivia slipped into the storage room with a lamp in hand and her practice bag under her arm. She could feel the ship lightly rise and fall around her and carefully stepped around the occasional damp and slimy spot on the floorboards. It had been hard to find a quiet and, more importantly, private place to practice at first in the densely packed ship. There were few spaces open enough where Olivia could practice her larger routines and many other Shepherds, still getting their sea legs, sought out those wider rooms to gather and commiserate.

Maribelle had first suggested practicing on deck where the sun glimmered off the waves and the sea breeze took off the edge of its rays. Her friend did not understand why Olivia kept insisting on finding a room in the dank belly of the ship rather than dance with an open sky overhead. She had seen Olivia scramble up the netting to the crow's nest as good as any old sailor and skip across the deck in tune with the rolling of the waves- it was not like Vaike who tripped over a pile of rope on the deck, fell over the railing while hopping about, and had to be hauled back by his ankles.

Olivia had made excuses about getting in the way while the sailors worked, but in truth Olivia just felt as she would freeze up from all the eyes, from stern to bow, port to starboard. It was one thing to be worked up and dance for people on stage and in battle, but these routines were still imperfect. She messed up all the time and wouldn't it be embarrassing if she was the next one to be hoisted back onto the ship by her ankles-?

In the end, Maribelle helped her find a storage room on the condition that Olivia would give at least one performance for the Shepherds later in the week. It would ease the minds and hearts of those that had done little beside eat and lie in bed sick, Maribelle had insisted, and Olivia agreed eagerly at the time. After all, she had come to be helpful and here was something only she could do.

Yet as the week was coming to a close and Maribelle found a way to sneak reminders into every conversation they had, Olivia could feel her old stage fright rear up. She had not been able to sleep as she had lain in bed and run through her routine over and over again. It was miserable and, unable to stay still any longer, she slipped out of her hammock, tiptoed the many sleeping Shepherds, and went down to her practice room.

After her initial stretches and basic step routines, she could feel her mind begin to clear. Dancing was all about the movement now, the step here, the beat in her mind, the rhythm on her arms, and the faster she moved, with her heart surging as yes, yes, this is how it goes, the more right it all felt, beginning from her dancer’s core and extending like lightning to her fingertips and toes. Confidence began to build in her chest and she spun, chin up, back arched, core steady-

Someone was watching her from the doorway.

Despite her surprise, she was in the moment and she flared out of the spin into a jump, arms snapping out and eyes closed. Sweat flew off her face and Olivia landed with a thump, right with the strong beat of the music, to strike the finishing pose.

The sound of a single person clapping echoed throughout the room. Olivia turned to face her mystery audience of one and she realized it was not one of her fellow Shepherds.

“That was amazing, Ylissean lass. I did not know there were such inspirational dancers in such a stiff haildom.”

Olivia blushed as Captain Almeda strolled in and perche herself on one of the large crates. She reminded Olivia a lot of Raimi when Olivia had seen her shouting commands around the ship and giving the ‘landlubbers’ a bit of a hard time before warming up to them. Unlike Raimi, Captain Almeda was tiny, nearly as small as Ricken. But Olivia could tell the few sailors that Plegia managed to spare were fiercely loyal to her. She boasted an iron will enforced by sea and sun weathered skin, tangled bleached white dreadlocks, and more muscle in her arms than Olivia thought existed in her entire body. Olivia admired her fiercely but only from a distance.

“Oh, um, thank you. You sure did startle me… not that I minded or anything-!” Olivia said, flustered, and when she realized how rude she sounded, she quickly changed subject, “But you know, I’m not actually from Ylisse! I was born in a small village in the southern part of Regna Ferox but I’ve spent most of my life traveling so yeah…”

Captain Almeda looked at her with bemusement and Olivia stuttered to a stop, all the confidence she just had while dancing fading away.

“I didn’t mean to scare you so badly. I just saw the light and needed to check if it wasn’t a fire. That’s the biggest fear on a ship like this, y’know? And I found a better spectacle for my trouble.” she said

and kicked her heel against the crate with a laugh. Olivia resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands to hide her cheeks that now matched her hair.

“Yours is a funny army with farmer boys, Feroxi khans, a beast lady, and Ylissean priests! But I noticed you even have a few Plegians. My name is Almeda, by the way. I don’t think I caught yours-?” She extended a hand and Olivia realized she sat on the crate to put herself at eye height with Olivia. They shook hands and Olivia realized with embarrassment how sweaty her hands were.

“I’m Olivia. I used to work under Khan Basilio but now I dance for the Shepherds… although I guess you already knew that… And I like that my fellow soldiers are full of interesting people! I used to travel in a dancing caravan all over the continent. Being with the Shepherds kind of reminds me of traveling and meeting all sorts of people.” Olivia said and to her amazement, Almeda seemed legitimately interested in what she was saying. Soon, despite Olivia’s occasional stutters, they swapped stories the way old travelers always did, “So I was in this tiny little port in the south of Valm once…”

“No really? I can’t believe it!”

“I kid you not! Fatter than the beam of my mast and just as heavy, charging down the street-”

She remembered there had been worries about the Shepherds using Plegian craft and crew, given the relationship between Ylisse and Plegia. Yet everyone had been lectured thoroughly by Haura before they split into the different ships to be respectful and as open-minded as possible- they were all allies against Valm now. Prince Chrom stood behind her, a silent benediction, but Olivia could tell they both were slightly agitated from the way their body language indicated. In Almeda’s personable presence, Olivia could feel her worries melt away one by one.

Feeling a sudden surge of courage after laughing herself pink from the way Almeda fled that town in nothing but her trousers and her captain’s hat, Olivia asked, “Why don’t you dine with us sometime? I mean, if-f you would like. I’m performing at dinner tomorrow and I know everyone would like your stories.”

“Oh honey. I would truly love to see you perform, it’s just that your crowd and mine don’t really mesh. Ylisse and Plegia, you know?” she said with an exasperated sigh. “I don’t understand it much myself- well, that’s not true. I was just lucky to avoid a lot of it during my younger days. There’s lots of bad blood. The sailors are better than most because we brought in stable trade from Valm but they all have families on the mainland and most of Plegia hasn’t forgotten how they starved as the kings waged war.”

“But that’s all in the past, right?”

“Huh?” Almeda blinked down at Olivia like she had gone daft and the dancer blushed up to her ears.

“I mean, Haura told me Chrom has been trying real hard not to follow his father’s footsteps and do like Exalt Emmeryn did. That’s why we let those who are qualified and what to contribute fight for our cause, even people like me. We also funded this campaign all out of Ylissean and Plegian nobility’s pockets- oh, wait, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that…” Olivia trailed off but Almeda burst out laughing.

“I bet those nobles were as salty as my arse about that!”

“Heehee, yeah, Maribelle told me they were awful mad.” Olivia scrunched up her nose in an attempt to imitate Maribelle and said in a nasally voice, “‘After Plegia pledged their resources, they had to cough up their money or lose a chance at the Valmese loot. They dug in their heels the entire time as they came to the audiences and they practically lost it when Haura was the one to accept, with lady-like graciousness, of course, their generous donation to the defense of Ylisse in partnership with our allies Regna Ferox and  _Plegia_.’”

Almeda lost it as she howled with laughter, dreadlocks falling into her face and heels thumping against the crate. In between gasps, she managed to cough out, “You win, Olivia. I’ll come to dinner with you. And if we survive our encounter with the Valmese fleet, I’ll buy you a real dinner in Chon’sin- none of this slop. They have the best pan cakes in the world aside from my hometown’s.”

Olivia beamed.


End file.
